The life of the working artist is often romanticized, a mythology that centers on passion over profit, creativity over comfort, and the willingness to risk everything for art. The great artist, we’re told, knows no other way.

Behind this romantic notion lies a complex web of economic choices, geographic constraints, and class dynamics that determine not just who gets to pursue art full-time, but where they can afford to do it.

To understand how location shapes creative practice and artistic possibility, I spoke with working artists in New York and Montreal, two of North America’s most culturally vibrant cities.

Alex Wolfe is a New York-based artist, writer, and educator who uses walking as a generative tool to explore memory, place, and the overlooked spaces of American cities. Willow Loveday Little is a writer, language instructor, and Montreal native who remains enamored with her city’s artistic culture. Gavin Sewell is a visual artist who lived most of his life in NYC before moving to Montreal, offering a unique perspective on both scenes. And Markus Lake (aka Markus Floats) is a musician and my neighbour. After commiserating about our landlord’s latest rent increase, we dove deep into what it really costs to make art.

“I’ve never owned a car,” Markus Floats tells me from his Montreal apartment down the hall from mine. “I eat a lot of rice and beans. I walk everywhere.” His small space is packed with the essentials: music equipment, books, records, and graphic novels. “There are certain things that I just don’t think will make my life that much better. And maybe they would, but I’m going to keep it simple and find happiness in that.”

For Floats, like many artists, money isn’t about acquiring things; it’s about freeing up time and energy to create.

“A lot of the sacrifices I’ve made are just so that I have free time. I like to sleep in. I get up around 11, 12 most days. I go to bed at 3. I go for a night walk every night.” He pauses. “But I realize that it’s unsustainable in that I don’t make any money doing those things. But those things allow me to make music.”

The idea for this article emerged from a hallway conversation between Floats and other neighbours about organizing against a rent increase, a reminder that even in Montreal, creatives are grasping onto the remnants of cheap rent. This tension between financial stability and creative freedom became a central theme across these conversations.

“There’s something just so magical about Montreal,” says writer Willow Loveday Little. “It’s the same thing that makes people visit once and get that almost glassy look in their eye. They’re hooked.”

Little and I sit in Parc La Fontaine on an idyllic summer day as she describes a recent conversation with a first-time Montreal visitor who noticed something distinct about the city’s arts scene. “Where he’s from, artists attend each other’s events because it’s a formality of the social contract. Here, there’s a lot more genuine curiosity and engagement. People listen to your vision because they want to understand it.”

This supportive atmosphere extends to the competitive dynamics, or lack thereof. “No one really believes they’re going to write a bestseller and buy a house from that money,” Little observes. “So why be competitive?”

Floats, who moved from Calgary 15 years ago, puts it more bluntly: “Montreal’s strength is just having a lot of weird shit going on. Completely unmarketable music.”

The contrast with New York couldn’t be starker. Originally from Maine, Gavin Sewell lived most of his adult life in NYC before relocating to Montreal. When he first moved to the city in his early twenties, he planned to become a playwright but quickly realized his fantasies were rooted in an era that no longer existed.

“When artists hang out in New York, we usually talk about money,” Sewell explains. “Who found a cheap studio space or a dealer that actually paid on time. You’re talking about scarce resources. In Montreal, when artists hang out, they actually talk about aesthetics, theory, art, which is really lovely.”

Alex Wolfe, currently based in New York, confirms this observation: “The downtown art scene is very tight knit, but I still find it kind of alienating. In New York, the capitalism dial is turned up quite high, which leads to a lot of networking. You go to a party and it’s people asking where you’re showing.”

The funding landscape differs dramatically between countries. “In the United States, you basically only get grants at the point where you no longer need them,” says Sewell. “In Montreal, your chances of actually getting money that can allow you to live and work for six months to a year are way higher.”

Floats received a Canada Council Grant recently. “I was living on Easy Street for six months,” he says. “Going to Jean Talon Market, getting fancy protein, fancy cheese. Those brief periods take a huge mental load off. But there’s no retirement plan.”

Both cities are transforming in ways that threaten their artistic communities. Floats reminisces about Montreal fifteen years ago, when rooms cost a few hundred dollars and venues were abundant. “People played in terrible bands their entire lives, paid cheap rent until they finally made it. You need that scrappy infrastructure.”

Sewell, having witnessed New York’s transformation into a playground for the ultra-wealthy, sees disturbing parallels. “It’s very sad to me, having watched hyper-gentrification in New York, seeing it replicated in Montreal. Montreal’s amazing cultural richness, that laid-back quality — it’s a very sad thing to see threatened.”

Luckily, he doesn’t think Montreal’s art scene is at risk of disappearing entirely. “To me, hyper-gentrification doesn’t mean there won’t be art anymore,” Sewell reflects. “But it means the artistic voices will mostly come from the upper middle class and above. What gets lost is room for working-class voices.”

Perhaps most telling were the artists’ definitions of success. “I think last year was the first year I was above the poverty line in ten years,” Floats shares candidly. “Home ownership is not in the cards. I’ve resigned myself to making $20,000 to $40,000 a year for the rest of my life. I’m not making popular music. I’m not going to make it big.”

The weight of living at or under the poverty line takes a toll. Floats gives examples like just being able to go to the grocery store and buy whatever you want without worrying.

“When you don’t have money, everything is money. And that sucks.”

Sewell, despite decades of comparative professional success, faces new challenges. “I thought over time it would get easier, but the middle class has constricted, which means I depend more on a small base of wealthier collectors. Individual sales feel much more high stakes now.”

What emerges from these conversations is a portrait of artistic life shaped as much by geography and economics as by talent or vision. Montreal’s affordability and supportive culture create space for experimentation and community, while New York’s intensity and expense demand constant hustle but offer unparalleled opportunities.

The artists I spoke with have found ways to navigate these realities, whether through strategic compromises, community building, or simply accepting that the romantic notion of the starving artist is both outdated and unsustainable. Their stories reveal that modern day art making requires not just creativity, but also economic literacy and community support.

As costs rise in both cities, the question becomes: how do we preserve space for the “weird shit” that makes culture vibrant? The answer may lie not in individual resilience, but in collective action — supporting public funding for the arts and building the infrastructure that allows diverse voices to flourish.

After all, as Sewell reminds us, “Being an artist doesn’t remove the obligation to join your local tenants’ union.”◼︎